Classic Poem

There are poets
In comfortable houses
Clean beds
Who write of grass and trees and
Flowers
They sing melodies that concord
On tuneful ears
Sing babies to sleep
And say

All the world is well.

‘Twould be nice to be
Such a poet
To not know and not care
Not really
Not seeing, not dreaming
Not alive, not dead
Just falling
Like a green leaf on a
Summer’s day.


(Previously published in Apollo's Lyre, Spring 2007)